


Not My Son

by Zelara



Series: Of Wolf Princes and Dragon Kings [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aegon Has a Serious Incest Fetish, Aegon is Bossy, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, And Domineering, Did I mention the incest?, It's inescapable, Jon Connington REALLY Hates that Bastard, Jon loves it, M/M, Oral Sex, R plus L equals J, Sibling Incest, Turns into Purposeful Voyeurism, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 12:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7438166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelara/pseuds/Zelara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon Connington discovers that Aegon is sleeping with that damned wolf bastard brother of his.</p><p>Chapter 1 reads like a smutty one-shot. (^_^)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not My Son

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, seriously now, if you're not into incest between brothers, you need to back away now. I will so delete any comments that start flailing around whining about how nasty incest is or damning me to hell for writing it.
> 
> You have been warned.
> 
> I didn't intend for Jon Connington to be so... well, you'll see.

Jon Connington’s son has blue hair and indigo eyes. His clothes are all well-worn with patched knees and tiny holes often mended with thread of the wrong color. He unfailingly bathes in the ocean every day when they are out to sea, but delights in freshwater baths, hot or cold. His son keeps his bright blue hair cut short so that it frames his face and can just obscure his eyes if need be, but never so much as brushes his shoulders. He has been well-taught that women are the downfall of good men, and so he finds chastity to be no onerous burden, most of his attraction to girls shamed out of him before he was old enough to find them appealing anyway. His son’s name is Young Griff and he is gone.

Instead, a familiar stranger wears his son’s skin and speaks with his son’s voice. This man laughs rarely—or at least, his laughs are rarely true—but when he does, it is the same sound as Jon has heard every day of his son’s life. The eyes are still indigo, but rather than short blue, the stranger has a waterfall of pristine silver hair that spills from his head down to tickle the bottoms of his shoulder blades. His clothes are made of fine silk and cotton and when they are damaged, they’re simply thrown out rather than mended or patched.

And as for chastity… Well that appears to be a ship that has long sailed as well. Though evidently not with only a woman at the helm. He can’t quite make himself glad for that though, all things considered.

So though he cannot even cry or garb himself in black to mourn his boy, and though he has no body to bury, nor memorial stone to grieve before, it is incontrovertible fact that his son is gone, never to return. Aegon VI Targaryen is not his son. He is not his Young Griff.

It is this knowledge that allows him to not immediately slink quietly away like an abashed parent when he unknowingly walks in on Aegon in the midst of intimacy with someone one night.

His duties as Hand of the King keep him constantly busy and it is a delicate balancing act as he tries to keep the realm from falling apart. Delicate has never been his strong suit, much preferring to knock petty bickering noble’s heads together than having to sift through the minutia of their quarrels and coax them into harmony. Harmony that often only lasted until he left the room, then they would be back to their backstabbing and poisoned words.

In the morning there is a meeting of the small council and several documents need to be looked over in advance by the King. He is already exhausted, but it would not do for the King to walk into a meeting of his own small council ignorant of important matters being discussed. Connington has no doubt that the Queen’s freed slave girl will have already gone over them with the Queen. She and Aegon are usually amicable towards one another, but they neither of them are above taking jabs at each other when one is obviously unprepared. Their alliance was an uneasy one in the beginning, and they both seem to enjoy the verbal jousting—so long as they are the aggressor.

This is why he bullies his way past Ser Rolly where the man stands guarding the door of the King’s chambers, brushing aside the man’s protests with irritation.

Connington has never approved of Ser Rolly being named a member of Aegon’s Kingsguard. There has always been a certain prestige to this brotherhood of knights that has been graced by some of the finest knights the realm has ever seen. While under the Usurper’s rule, the order became greatly diminished, but Aegon’s rule is a return to the rightful way of things. The dignity and standing of the Kingsguard should have been restored as well, but Aegon has instead named several men wholly unworthy of the honor. Ser Rolly was only the first, unfortunately, and certainly not the worst.

He is thankful that ‘the worst’ is off somewhere else tonight.

He is _always_ thankful when that one is elsewhere.

“Lord Connington, the King doesn’t want to be disturbed. He is—”

Connington cuts him off with a harsh slice of his arm through the air. “Enough, Ser Rolly,” he growls, “The King will always see the Hand of the King, even in the middle of the night. It isn’t the place of the _Kingsguard_ to interfere with matters of State.”

The red-haired knight shuts his mouth with a displeased frown but obligingly steps aside. The sardonic smile he adopts then as well as the dramatic bow the man drops into, are just further evidence that Rolly Duckfield has never been Kingsguard material. “As you say, my lord. The King will _surely_ welcome your visit.”

The Lord Hand stares down the former Golden Company knave until the man himself breaks the contact with a smirk and returns to watching the hall. Connington scowls at the continued disrespect and lets himself into the King’s chambers without waiting for a reply to his knock.

The receiving room is entirely dark but for a faint glow coming from the adjoining bedchamber. The light is so dim, he thinks at first that Aegon has gone to bed and simply forgotten to blow out one or two candles. But when he enters the bedchamber, he sees that the bed, while rumpled, is empty.

Additionally, the room is not so dark as he assumed, for the whole far side of the chamber where the bathing area is situated glows from floor to ceiling. The light is contained there by an enormous set of wooden panels that serve as a privacy screen around the bath, magnificently carved so that the faint candlelight throws flickering shadows throughout the room. It is large enough and the carvings small enough that someone could stand a foot away and stay completely enshrouded.

He is about to call out to Aegon when he catches the sounds of soft splashing as well as the all too easily identifiable wet sound of eagerly performed fellatio. He means to turn away at once when he realizes, thinking at first it to be Aegon’s aunt and wife, Daenerys, here on a conjugal visit, while swearing that he’ll kill Duckfield. But he stops short and his breath catches when he hears his own name moaned lowly.

“Ah gods, Jon,” comes the breathy groan. It is Young Griff/Aegon’s voice, but it has the same husky tone that Rhaegar’s once had, and Aegon has rarely called him Jon, and never like that. This is how he justifies sneaking closer to peer through a carved dragon’s eye to himself in that moment. What he sees hammers home the final nail into his son’s coffin, for this is not his son before him. His son would never bed the accursed offspring of that temptress wolf slut.

Even with his back to Connington and his dark mess of curls—just like his _mother’s_ —wet and slicked back on the nape of his neck, the bastard is easily recognizable. His pale Northern complexion alone sets him worlds apart from the crowds of darker Southron men and women here in the Capital. So few Northmen wanted anything to do with the South, even after their ridiculous secession attempt was put down with the return of the Dragons.

Rhaegar’s bastard son is one of only a dozen Northmen who live in or frequent the Red Keep. And he is the only one who is on anything approaching good terms with the Dragon King and Queen, having been pressed into his brother’s service as one of the Kingsguard. So even without being able to see the slut’s face, he is reasonably certain that the pale, dark haired man with Aegon’s hand in his hair as his head bobs in an unmistakeable fashion between Aegon’s spread thighs, is indeed Jon Snow.

 _What is this? What_ is _this?!?_ he fumes silently, resisting the urge to storm out from behind the screen and snatch the dark haired, bastard Kingsguard by his curly hair and drag him down to the dungeons for _daring_ to defile his King like this.

Oblivious to Connington’s fury, Aegon sits on the edge of the sunken bathtub, one hand thrown out behind him to brace himself, while the other is tangled in his bastard brother’s hair. The purple of Aegon’s eyes has almost disappeared entirely, swallowed up by black pupils, and they stare down so intensely, so unerringly, at a single point, that Connington just knows that he is staring straight into a pair of steel colored eyes. His legs dangle into the pool on either side of Snow, the water too opaque to see either them or Snow’s body below the waist.

The air is thick with a floral fragrance which he dimly recognizes as the same exotic perfume that surrounds the Queen. Does Aegon now use the same feminine concoctions in his bath that his _wife_ does? There, beside Aegon, are an array of jars, bottles and even a mostly used glass carafe of what appears to be thick creamy _milk_ from the kitchens. The idea is enough to boggle his mind, though not wholly distract him from the abomination taking place before him.

Aegon is swallowing thickly, his handsome face so like Rhaegar’s that it almost physically hurts Connington to look at him some days. But Rhaegar never looked like this, not for him, and the sight makes him feel more dirty than stimulated.

 _These are Rhaegar’s sons_ , he reminds himself with some difficulty. _I ought not be watching them at all!_

He knows that he should have left at once when he realized Aegon was thus occupied. He knows that he is only making it worse the longer he stays. And yet…

And yet, the vision of Lyanna Stark’s son being torn down from his lofty station and reduced to a cock-starved whore is like something from his fantasies. He just wishes that it was any man other than _Aegon_ doing it. Aegon has been like a son to him, nevermind that their relationship has grown distant and somewhat cold ever since Aegon became King. Seeing him like this, looking so, so much like his father, he feels as though he is being torn in two.

On the one hand, all he can see is Young Griff, and he feels the natural repulsion of a parent who has accidentally discovered their child naked and enthusiastically fucking a bed partner. But on the other, Aegon no longer looks like Young Griff, with his long silver hair and his eyes looking more purple than ever without short blue hair to play tricks on the eye. Now he just looks like his father, the beautiful Prince Rhaegar, and rather than finding the sight of him in the throes of passion repulsive, Connington is having to remind himself that Aegon was once his _child_ just to avoid finding himself aroused.

 _Why couldn’t I have found Snow being bent over by half a dozen guardsmen in the barracks_ , he laments. _Or at least voluntarily fellating someone_ other _than Aegon._

He cannot make himself leave, nor even avert his eyes, and risk missing a moment of this boy he loathes being debased, even if he must also witness Aegon’s as well. Unfortunately, Snow appears quite eager in his performance, and even quite skilled, if Aegon’s reactions are anything to go by.

“Gods, little brother,” he groans brokenly as he lets go of Snow’s hair to caress his face instead. “You were _born_ for this—born for me, Jon. Our father fucked you into your mother so you would be mine. He thought you’d be a girl, a sweet little sister-wife for me to wed. You’d have been named Visenya and I’d have still fucked you. Just. Like. This.”

He suddenly takes Snow’s wild hair in both hands and drags the younger man forward until his cock must be half down the other man’s throat as his own head falls back in ecstasy. Snow doesn’t fight, though Connington can hear him gagging some at first before he sees his throat contracting as he swallows. What he can see of Snow’s face has also flamed vivid scarlet since Aegon brought up their father, making Connington think that perhaps Snow was as mortified as himself by the mention of Rhaegar breeding the boy into Lyanna Stark. The spiel about fucking Snow as a sister-wife called Visenya cannot have been anymore gratifying to Northman’s masculinity either. Blind to Snow’s sudden discomfiture, Aegon shudders, his grip white knuckled in Snow’s hair and undoubtedly painful for the northern bastard.

Connington takes some small satisfaction from the fact that while Aegon may have fallen to the same lust that consumed his sire, he at least treats _his_ wolf whore like the slut he is. And Rhaegar’s eldest son thankfully has the sense to choose carefully which wolf to keep around for fucking if he simply must have one. No wars will be fought over Lyanna Stark’s bastard son, at any rate.

This is not to say that Connington in any way, shape, or form approves of Aegon’s having taken _any_ of the damn Stark descendants to his bed. The Starks were as much responsible for the fall of the Targaryens as Robert Baratheon himself, in his own opinion. Especially the temptress that had gotten Rhaegar killed. That Aegon is fucking _her_ son…

Frankly the Lord of Griffin’s Roost is having an abominable time trying to sort out how he feels about that. To begin with, it clearly is not the first time they have engaged sexually. The way they stared into one another’s eyes when he originally arrived was too familiar, too intimate for first time lovers. That implied intimacy rankles him, but Aegon’s careless, lewd handling and Jon Snow’s clear humiliation a few moments ago does a little to soothe his irritation.

The lack of awkwardness or hesitation with which Aegon used the bastard for his own pleasure is promising and maybe even a little encouraging. If Snow is viewed by the King as property to be used for his own enjoyment with no regard for the bastard’s own dignity, then it seems a step back in the right direction to the Hand. Even if the bastard himself doesn’t appear to mind being treated as a worthless slut, it might mean that Aegon at least does not feel anything _too_ reprehensible for his father’s bastard. If this affair with Snow is simply a convenient thrill, then it may not be too difficult to end, so long as Connington plays his cards right.

Back in the pool, Snow pulls back at last, heedless of the hold Aegon has on his head, and Connington observes the way he licks his elder brother’s cock clean of seed.

 _He really is a filthy slut. Just like his mother. I wonder if this is how she seduced Rhaegar?_ Connington has to bite down on his tongue hard to contain a grunt—of disgust, of course, he positively does not find _Jon Snow_ arousing—but Aegon throws his head back with a laugh of sheer delight that rings unabashed through the room.

“You, little brother, are a treasure,” he says breathlessly, hooking his hands under Snow’s arms and pulling him to a standing position in the tub, exposing the pale globes of his backside. Aegon’s hands sweep down his brother’s sides, one slipping around to the front, causing Snow to moan, and the other going to the back, grabbing a handful of one fair-skinned cheek and drawing him close. With him sitting on the edge of the tub and Snow standing inside it, Aegon appears several inches shorter than Snow. When they kiss, both must crane their heads from where they are pressed chest to chest.

 _At least this time, with a_ King _cuckolding his_ wife _with his Kingsguard brother, it will not result in bastards or rumored bastards sitting the Iron Throne. Tch. Small mercies_ , he thinks as he glowers at them.

It occurs to the Lord Hand as he hears Snow moan into Aegon’s mouth, that part of Snow’s appeal to Aegon seems to be their shared blood. Targaryens have married brother to sister for hundreds of years, since long before Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives, but he has only seen one such union. King Aerys and Queen Rhaella so plainly hated one another that he always assumed that the practice was considered an odious tradition to even the Targaryens themselves.

But Aegon appears to revel in the fact that Jon Snow is his own father’s younger child, even bringing up the manner of their connection in lewd detail far beyond merely addressing him as ‘little brother’ while the younger sucked his cock! And so Connington now wonders if instead it is an inherent inclination brought on by their dragon blood.

King Aerys himself was a horrid enough man to thoroughly stamp out any natural attraction Rhaella might have felt towards her dragon-blooded kin, and Aerys was mad most of Rhaegar’s life, though he also clearly lusted after his sister-wife. They could have been complete outliers, and their grandchildren more the norm for descendants of the ancient Dragonlords of Valyria. Certainly Snow isn’t outright repulsed by the monikers, despite growing up raised by ‘Honorable Eddard Stark,’ and surely living under the threat of disgrace if he ever looked even somewhat improperly at any of his ‘siblings’.

Although Connington has seen Snow in the presence of his younger ‘sisters’ Sansa and Arya Stark—perhaps he has Snow to thank for the fact that Aegon barely spared _her_ a second look—and while he obviously loves them beyond all measure, there was nothing to suggest that he saw them the way he evidently sees his elder brother, Aegon. Valyrians were often said to be almost inhumanly beautiful and their bonds to dragons are something unique to them, so possibly the so-called 'Blood of the Dragon' itself is a factor in Aegon and Snow’s attraction. Mayhap those of the dragon blood are naturally drawn to each other, the closer the relation, the better. It could even explain the tendency of Targaryens to break their betrothals to outside houses and secretly marry one another, the way Rhaegar’s grandfather and grandmother did.

King Aerys would often spew vitriol at this sister-wife, the most often refrain being that she refused to birth a healthy bride for their son. Everyone at court was—privately, of course—a little nauseated by these statements, and all were glad when the King gave up his attempts to breed Rhaegar a wife once Rhaegar became an older teen—especially Rhaegar himself.

Once the beautiful Silver Prince turned fourteen or so, he dreaded for years his mother giving birth to a baby girl and being betrothed to the girl in her cradle. With every year that passed, Rhaegar lamented that any child his parents had at that point would be young enough to be his own child, if they would simply allow him to marry and sire children of his own. It is indeed pitiably ironic that Rhaegar’s little sister is of age with his own youngest son now—and married to his elder.

Not that marriage seems to be any more a deterrent for Rhaegar’s son than it was Rhaegar himself. There must have been something to Lyanna Stark, something that she passed to her child. Something that awakens the lust of dragons and blinds them to all else. Daenerys Targaryen is no meek, frail Elia Martell to sit and weep when her husband goes around openly spurning her to fuck a wolf whore from the North. How can Aegon be so abysmally _stupid_? He may have bonded the green dragon, and his idiot slut may hold the affection of the white, but Drogon is Balerion the Black Dread reborn and the other dragons bow to their massive brother’s temper. Daenerys has but to order her black to incinerate Aegon and his catamite, and it will not matter that the court will be outraged, Aegon will be dead.

_Stupid, boy! Is having a wolf whore worth dying for?! Your father thought so, but I raised you not to repeat Rhaegar’s mistakes, you foolish boy!_

He seethes impotently behind the screen while Aegon, oblivious to his intelligence being ruthlessly castigated, sits sucking love bites into his Kingsguard’s neck. One of his hands, the one Connington cannot see, blocked by the bastard’s body, makes lazy, jerking motions between Snow’s legs, while with his other, he begins rubbing between the muscular cheeks he was previously groping.

Snow pants audibly and his hips stutter as he rests his head on Aegon’s shoulder, uncertain which stimulation to seek. Suddenly, Aegon’s long middle finger disappears up to the knuckle inside Snow and the decision appears to have been made. With a ragged cry, the younger man presses back into Aegon’s thrusting finger, taking it the rest of the way while Aegon swears filthily in Valyrian and sinks his teeth sharply into this brother’s neck. Connington’s mouth goes dry when Aegon stops fingering the other man just long enough to anoint his fingers in an opened jar of oil before shoving two back inside.

Snows keens and Connington is unable to stop his own gasp.

Aegon’s muscles seize suddenly and his movements halt.

For a heart stopping couple of moments, Connington thinks he has exposed his presence in the room. Then though, as if nothing happened, Aegon goes back to his attentions to Snow. At his brother’s prodding, Snow even lifts one leg and braces it on the ledge of the bath, taking the already obscene vision up a notch and leaving the plundered opening of his body exposed. But for Connington, the threat of sudden discover has acted like a bucket of icy water over his head and he is nearly blind to the image, as in his mind he repeats his earlier refrain.

_I should not be watching this. Aegon is like my son, even if the slut isn’t. I should not be watching this!_

He almost works up the will to leave, even taking a few steps back, when they start _talking_ again.

“A—Aegon. Please just...”

“Please, what? _Brother_?” The inflection Aegon puts on the word ‘brother’ sounds like it would be more appropriately applied to Connington’s new favorite appellation for Snow—slut.

The dark haired bastard is evidently well used by now because Aegon quickly adds a third after only a few more sharp snaps of his wrist. Snow cries out hoarsely in response, his plea forgotten, and tries to fuck himself harder on Aegon’s fingers, causing the silver King to sigh in pleasure. He continues to torment Snow, the ceaseless motion of his wrist wringing wanton noises from his wolf-whore brother while Aegon’s watches him with hooded eyes. The sounds of Snow being fucked like a cheap harlot fill Connington’s ears and he can barely breath past the lump in his throat.

Aegon further shocks Connington when he lazily gathers the glistening spill from one of their cocks and smears it obscenely around Snow’s mouth. The Hand’s breathing stutters in his chest and Aegon swears lowly when Snow’s pink tongue slips out to lick and suck the finger clean. Because Snow is utterly shameless of his own actions instead of cringing in shame, he shudders and bucks his hips back into Aegon’s hand as it still pounds him, more erratically now than before.

“Please what, Jon?” the silver brother repeats, leaning in so that Connington cannot see what he has done. Though by the way the bastard’s hand suddenly flies to grab his silver hair, he can guess that Aegon is either licking or biting his nipples. Probably biting them, he surmises from the pitch of Snow’s pained yelp right after.

“Answer me, little brother.” Though he cannot see it, Connington can _hear_ the mischievous grin in his voice. “Please what?”

“Fuck me, Aegon!” Snow hisses, trying to dislodge Aegon’s teeth without losing his nipple. “Gods, please just fuck me, you sadistic twist!”

Connington wishes he could slap Rhaegar’s insolent by-blow right in the mouth for talking to his King like that. He is a member of the Kingsguard, no matter that his King deigns to use him as a pillow-boy in addition to his Kingsguard duties. He ought to be rapturous and thanking Aegon for the privilege, not cursing and insulting him.

Aegon though is not insulted and instead he laughs and kisses the other man deeply. His fingers slip out with a squelch that threatens to rob Connington of breath and wrenches a strangled whimper from Snow’s throat. Both of Aegon’s hands grip Snow’s hips hard enough to indent the flesh as he manhandles Snow the rest of the way out of the bath. Snow scrambles to right himself, already unsteady from having one of his legs splayed out wantonly, and it is only his brother’s tight hold on him that keeps him from falling.

They are both, but particularly Snow, wet with oil from their bath and as Aegon levers his bastard brother onto his knees, he evidently grows quickly frustrated with the slippery nature of his footing. He seeks to rectify the situation by wrangling his breathless Kingsguard onto a hastily spread bath sheet, and in the process knocks several of the vials and jars into the bath or spills them across the floor accidentally. The Lord Hand can see a bloom of white in the water where the carafe of milk disappears under the surface.

Heedless of the flowery smelling mess, Aegon tilts his kneeling brothers head backward and kisses him hard enough to bruise, one hand fisted in his hair, the other wrapped around Snow’s throat. For the first time, Connington can see them both unobstructed and he admits that they compliment each other beautifully. Their differences might even make them a more striking pair than Aegon and Daenerys make, though he can never think of that without recalling the sour fact that the same might have been said of Rhaegar and Aegon and Snow’s mothers.

Abruptly the silver-haired king releases Snow’s throat, but uses his hold on his hair to bend him forward so that his brother ends up on his hands and knees. Then King kneels, a look of burning desire on his face that makes Connington swallow thickly as he watches them in perfect profile. Tanned fingers dig into the pale skin of Snow’s buttocks and spread him wide, earning a lusty moan. He leans down and bites one cheek hard, drawing a yelp from Snow.

“Aegon!” Snow calls, frustration clear.

“Yes, yes, little brother. I know what you want,” Aegon assures him with a filthy grin, still leaving teeth marks across Snow’s backside. “But I’m still recovering from coming in your beautiful mouth. You’ll just have to be patient, Jon. I promise I’ll give you the good hard fucking you need—just as soon as I’m ready.”

This is a baldfaced lie, of course, for Connington can see Aegon’s hard phallusas as it leaks copiously against his belly. By the way Snow snarls wordlessly over his shoulder, he knows it as well. His King happily ignores his ire, determined even in his obvious aroused state to torment his younger brother to distraction first. He does consent to at least return his slick fingers to their earlier labor, an action that Snow explicitly approves with his ragged moan and the gentle rocking of his hips backward. “Ae—gon,” he chokes.

“Shhh...” his brother whispers, kissing the base of his spine. “Just a little more, brother. Can you come for me like this, hm? Can you come just on my fingers, little brother? I want to see you do it, Jon. Show me what a slut you are for me, baby brother.” He twists his fingers _just so_ and Snow does come then with an inarticulate scream of pure pleasure.

The younger scrapes his fingernails across the floor, bunching the sheet as he shakes, the white streaks of his spend splattered across the cloth. Aegon watches in open mouthed reverence, a shiver clearly wracking his spine as he grabs hold of his suddenly limp brother before the other can collapse to the floor.

Avoiding the mess, Aegon turns his spent Kingsguard and lays him on his back, positioning his slack limbs so that he is between Snow’s legs. Snow’s chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, head thrown back with his eyes closed and his arms laying languid above his head with satiation and exhaustion both from holding him up throughout his silver brother’s sensual assault. And as Aegon presses fervent kisses up the bastard’s chest to his neck and finally his gasping mouth, the gray eyed man trembles with the aftershocks of his orgasm.

Aegon is almost worshipful in his attentions now, whispering praise and declarations of adoration that make Connington blanch, his hatred for the boy’s mother nearly overwhelming as it is. Snow eventually regains his breath and begins to return Aegon’s kisses despite his fatigue.

“You’re so good, Jon. So fucking beautiful, I just want to fuck you forever. Make you come and come and come on my cock and my fingers until you’re begging me not to. Oh Seven, you’re so gorgeous all fucked out like this. Such an obedient little brother I have. Gods, I can’t believe it took me so long to find you.

“I should have known who you were from the moment I saw you. I wanted to make you suck my cock from the first moment you knelt and those lips of yours said ‘Your Grace.’ Do you remember that, Jon? Remember how you came outside to greet us with that pout on your girly mouth? You didn’t look happy to see us, you ungrateful little slut.” He chuckles into Snow’s mouth and the other rolls his eyes irreverently.

“I wasn’t sure you were there to _help_ ,” the dark brother says wryly. “The last time an army marched on the Wall, it was led by Ramsay Bolton wanting to cut my head off because Jeyne Poole had escaped him and fled to the Wall. Excuse me for my simply _deplorable_ reluctance for a repeat performance accompanied by a trio of goddamned _dragons_.”

This is more the kind of interaction that Connington is used to between them. A battle of insolence and sharp comebacks punctuated by laughter, it has driven him crazy since the first time the lowly bastard had dared to engage his rightful _King_ in such a fashion while still at the Wall. Nevermind that Aegon had started it—Aegon always _starts_ it, but people aren’t meant to _finish_ it, especially not once Aegon was the blasted _King_. It is an assumption of familiarity that isn’t proper for most people to have towards their monarchs. Although mere ‘familiarity’ appears to be a ship that has long sailed when it comes to Aegon and his bastard brother.

Aegon gives a full-throated laugh at his brothers retort and pecks a kiss on the corner of Snow’s mouth. “But you _were_ so desperate for help that you fell to one knee and bowed your head and said ‘Welcome, your Grace” anyway. Gods, I wanted to unlace my trousers and make you swallow my cock right there in front of the entire Watch and my army. Would have scandalized them good, hm?”

Now it is Snow’s turn to laugh. “Yes, I think the ‘Silver King’ waving his prick around outside in the snow probably would have shocked them—shocked them that you were such an idiot.” He grins impishly then. “Assuming, of course, that there was anything _to_ wave in that tempera—aaah!”

Snow squawks in a less than dignified manner and tries to scramble out from under Aegon as his brother mercilessly digs his fingers into his sides.

“What was that?!” Aegon bellows in mock outrage. “Are you implying something, little brother, because I don’t recall that you’ve ever complained before, you insolent bastard!”

“Okay, okay!” the darker cries out for mercy with laughter as he twists ineffectually under his brother’s assault. “I’m sorry, Aegon, you’re right! It’s massive, I promise. So big I can barely see straight when you fuck me with it. Oh, gods, yeeees, please—please—please, Aegon. I swear, I’ve never seen its like.” Aegon has by now let up his torment and his brother lays breathless and considerably less pliant in his arms as he sucks determinedly on the hollow of his pale throat in reward.

Snow’s hands are in Aegon’s hair, not pulling, as Connington first assumes, but massaging Aegon’s scalp with his fingertips in time with the roll of his hips. Aegon still has not orgasmed since the first time in Snow’s mouth and he rubs his hardened shaft against his brother’s writhing body.

“Gods,” Aegon groans as he sits up and perches on his haunches between Snow’s spread legs. “Are you ready for me, Jon?”

The dark bastard looks into Aegon’s eyes, his own cock already hardening again, and says just four words. Four words with so much unadulterated _filth_ in his tone that Connington isn’t sure he’s ever heard lifelong _whores_ talk so vulgar.

“Fuck me...big brother.”

When Aegon shivers and his hard cock jumps in his hand as he obligingly lines it up, Connington realizes that while Snow does not mind the appellations and reminders of their shared blood, it is _Aegon_ that they arouse.

“Well, since you ask so nicely, little brother,” he purrs delightedly. And then sinks his manhood in to the root without pause.

The younger man knocks his head back on the floor and wheezes, one hand striking out lightning fast to press on his brother’s chest, silently begging for quarter that his elder harshly denies him with a stroke of his hips. Snow’s eyelashes flutter as he tries not to let his eye’s roll into the back of his head and his breathing is choked as he pants. Aegon just takes a hold of Snow’s legs and puts his muscular calves on his own shoulders as he leans down, drilling into his bastard brother pitilessly.

Connington meanwhile does not understand this baffling change in attitude. Even when roughly fucking his brother’s mouth or teasingly fingering him until he was raging, Aegon has not lost his fond mannerisms. But now, joined to his brother at last in the most intimate of ways, he couples with him callously, disallowing the former affections they shared. Instead he keeps a distance between them as he brutalizes Snow with his phallus, no kisses or smiles shared, just the piston of his hips and the short cries that Snow utters with each loud smack of Aegon’s thighs into his backside.

Aegon groans, his eyes rolling skyward, and he grabs the backs of Snow’s knees bruisingly tight and shoves them forward, causing Snow’s back to half leave the ground and his belly to fold uncomfortably. He ignores his brother’s pathetic whine and instead bites his lip and growls as he takes in the sight of his cock splitting him open. Snow’s back arches and he spreads his thighs further apart, begging for more with his body language as Aegon keeps his cruel, punishing pace.

The sudden ringing slap of his open palm to one of Snow’s white thighs makes Connington’s jaw drop and he can see the hand print form immediately in a lurid red. Undaunted— _invigorated_ , even, he is shocked to see—Snow is panting loudly by this time and rocking himself up into Aegon’s harpooning thrusts.

 _What is this?_ Connington wonders, mystified. _Something changed between them, but what? It was after the bastard called Aegon ‘big brother’. Is that some sort of perverse signal between them for when Snow wants to be treated this way?_

Indeed, for all that Snow ought to be screaming in agony from the savage assault on his poor backside, he can’t seem to get enough of his silver brother’s shaft and he keens when Aegon’s efforts stall. Aegon appears to be trying to catch his breath and regain his control.

“Stop squirming, Jon,” he admonishes through his teeth. “I’m not ready to come yet—not til you do first.”

“Argh!” Snow exclaims with evident frustration. “Then keep moving,” he snarls, “I hate when you do this! At least let me touch my damn cock, you sadist.”

“No,” Aegon growls back. “The rule stands—keep your hands where they belong. I told you, brother, you were born for me to fuck and you’re perfectly capable of getting your release on the end of my cock alone. I might give you relief with my hands, but yours aren’t to touch what doesn’t belong you, little brother. And your cock has belonged only to me since I first fucked you at the Wall.”

Snow swears again, louder this time as Aegon slaps his bottom once more, but Connington barely hears it. His attention is solely devoted to searching his own memories to try to pinpoint what in the world Aegon is _talking_ about.

 _He was fucking the bastard at the Wall?! It can’t be, I couldn’t have missed something like that! There would have been_ signs _. There would have been gossip throughout the army. People would have talked about it when Snow was still just known as Eddard Stark’s by-blow. But once it was known they were brothers, you’d have to have lived under a rock to not hear about the scandal of the Targaryen king fucking his bastard brother. And yet nothing—nothing! Its impossible!_

His outrage is neatly deflected once more as Aegon starts moving once again, head tilted back and eyes closed in apparent concentration while he pounds fast and loud into Snow once again. The northern bastard stretches out his arms and his back arches sharply until only his curly head, shoulders, and arms still press into the ground. Aegon has his fingers digging into Snow’s legs, bruises forming already in some places, like the backs of his knees where Aegon held him originally. Snow’s dark eyes follow Aegon without breaking contact even as his silver brother refuses to look at him and lose the battle of wills. Several jarring thrusts later, with a lusty cry of his brother’s name, the dark eyes disappear and Snow’s chest is painted in his own spend.

Aegon’s gleaming, sweaty chest pitches, his face turning down to watch Snow’s completion as his own hips begin to stutter and it isn’t long before he too lets loose a shout in the shape of his bastard brother’s name. He slumps, dropping Snow’s legs and catching himself with his arms on either side of his exhausted catamite as he regains his breath. He goes down to his elbows and ends up resting his forehead against Snow’s collarbone. His long silver hair hangs in partially dry ropes that drag across Jon Snow’s chest. Once their trembling stops, Aegon scoots back, eliciting groans from both their mouths as his cock slips out of the bastard’s used hole.

But rather than leaving it at that as he should and ordering the wolf-whore away now that he’s had his pleasure, Aegon instead pulls Snow along with him back into the no longer steaming bath. He sits Snow in his lap and uses handfuls of water across Snow’s chest to wash away the spilled seed. His eyes are hooded with lazy contentment when, to Connington’s complete consternation, he takes Snow’s mouth in a soft kiss that Snow returns. He whispers something into Snow’s mouth and it is at that moment that Connington realizes without a shadow of a doubt that he has just witnessed was a round of salacious lovemaking between the Dragon King and his _lover_ , not just sex with a conveniently available slut, as he’d hoped.

And with that, the disorientation in his mind regarding the split between his son, Young Griff, and his King, Aegon, disappears. From Aegon’s own mouth, the answer is put paid to, once and for all.

Feeling sickened and ashamed, Connington turns around as he ought to have at the beginning and quietly leaves the King’s chambers. Outside the door, Rolly Duckfield still stands with both eyebrows raised in clear surprise and judgment heavy in his eyes. He does not speak, allowing his silence to say everything, and Connington snarls inarticulatlly as he storms back to the Tower of the Hand.

The last words he heard from Aegon in that damn room haunt him all the way back to his own chambers and he knows they’ll haunt him for weeks and months afterward. He wishes he’d never set foot in that room and could sleep in blissful ignorance of the disaster that has somehow repeated itself beneath his very nose.

“ _I love you, my wolf-prince,”_ Aegon had whispered softly, the sound almost not reaching him. It dredges up a long repressed memory of another silver haired man who had declared his love for a ‘wolf-maid’ and had died with her name on his lips.

Thus it is now irrefutable.

_Aegon is not my son—but he is undeniably Rhaegar’s._

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: All I wanted was some Aegon/Jon brotherly smut. Maybe 1,000 to 2,000 words at most. What the hell happened??? o.O
> 
> There is more that I've written, but I wanted the first chapter to read like a smutty one-shot so keep an eye out for the fallout a little later. (^_^) And he's not perving on Aegon, just so you understand, he's perving on Jon Snow being 'put in his place'. The fact that it is Aegon is actually kinda ruining it for him.


End file.
